Author: Laura JV (laurav@stones.com)Title: The Meditation of BloodArchive: ASC/EM, R'rain's.Rating: PG-13Parts: 1/1Codes: S/McCategory: weirdWarnings: I don't use warnings.Summary: McCoy has a disturbing experience in Spock's quarters. Sequelto _The Sound of His Voice_ and _Now_. Pre-slash, rather than actualslash.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek. I own this story.

Notes: I wrote this for Shore Leave. The folks at the TSU party likedit, and I hope you do, too. Ann, you can have this for BLTS. This isalso a special present for Fizz, because I know sie wanted a sequel very much.

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The Meditation of Blood

I wake up and reach for Spock, but he isn't there. For the pastweek, I'd been sleeping in his quarters, letting him keep me sane.Hoping there was something more there--I don't know. I know him sowell, and yet I don't know him at all.

I never would have thought the cold Vulcan I met that first day on board could speak so softly, so gently; could understand my pain and be sowilling to help me heal. I never thought he would be my friend, evenwhen I dreamed of him as a lover.

His space on the bed is cold. I wonder if he leaves at night regularly, maybe to avoid me and shield himself from my dreams. I doubt it, sincethis is the first time I've woken up alone, here.

My eyes adjust to the dark slowly, and I see him, kneeling on themeditation stone. He has his knife in his hand, that long wicked knifehe was holding the first night I came here, and his black robes arenowhere in sight.

I can't look away.

The knife moves, reflecting light from the firepot. Spock moves, hishands white in the darkness. Behind his hands and the knife, bloodflows. He chants, his voice low and soft and fast, and the knife movesagain. His hands flash. Blood flows.

The blood is black in the dim light, and he has two slashes on his right shoulder, parallel to his collarbone. He passes the knife from one hand to the other, twirling it in the air, and the quick white blur ofmovement leaves another trail of blood.

The chant has become singsong, and the knife moves faster. Over hischest, his shoulders, his arms and then, with a flicker of the pattern,his face.

Across the forehead, along the cheekbones, straight down from the eyesto the jaw--and I realize he has opened his eyes. That he sees me, andknows I see him.

The knife never breaks its rhythm as he rises, slicing horizontal linesacross his stomach, crosshatches on his chest. The knife moves. Thehands flash. The blood flows.

He advances.

The cuts on his face have bled into his eyes and mouth, and as he movestowards me, I see emerald highlights in the black.

I have never been so afraid, not even when his counterpart forced hisway into my mind.

He opens his mouth, and his teeth gleam through the blood. I see fangs, the fangs of a beast out of hell, and I hear it snarl, feel its breathon my face--

I can't move. I'm afraid that if I look up, I will see the beast. Hepushes me back and meets my eyes. "Lights, thirty percent," he says,and the room lightens to a soft gray. I can still smell the tang ofblood in the air, but I force myself to look at him.

He looks...as he always looks in his robes. Severe and alien. "I'mfine," I manage, and he lets me go.

"I will get you some water."

He stands and disappears into the next room, and I hear the hum of thesmall replicator. I'm still shaking, and I can barely hold the glasswhen he hands it to me.

There's something wrong with his robes, something not right. I studyhim, trying to puzzle it out, and then I notice the smudges of emeraldon my glass.

Oh God.

I touch my face where I rested against him, and my fingers come awaysticky with his blood. I look past him to the stone, and the knife isthere, its blade dulled, the stone itself stained green and black.

I jerk away from him, spilling my water on the bed, and he watches mewithout saying a word.

I swallow hard. "Spock."

He doesn't answer.

"Spock. You--I saw--"

He inclines his head, ever so slightly. "Yes. I apologize. You should not have had to see that."

"What...what the hell was that?"

He quirks an eyebrow at me. "The Meditation of Blood."

"It, ah, doesn't seem...logical."

"It does to me."

"Ah." I stare down at the water on the bedclothes. I can feel itseeping through to my skin. "You--your face--you were bleeding."

He unseals his robe, and it falls to the floor with a wet sound, and Irealize it is saturated with blood. The light pants he wears underneath are emerald from the waist to mid-thigh, and his chest--

While he is streaked with blood where the robe was, there are nowounds. No marks at all. I look up at him, unable to keep the fear out of my eyes, and he shakes his head.

"You should not have had to see that, Len."

And he reaches out, touches his hand to my shoulder, and before I canprotest, I feel myself lose consciousness. As I slide under, I hear his voice again, from a long way away, but I can't make out the words.

I wake up when the alarm goes off, and he's still asleep, one arm around my waist.

His robes are gone, the stone is clean, and the knife hangs next to thesword, and for a moment I believe it's a dream.

I look down at the hand that rests, so casually, on my skin, and I seethe fingernails--Spock's usually immaculate fingernails--are stainedwith blood.